


trip away, make no stay, meet me all by break of day.

by civilorange



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:17:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: It starts on a Tuesday.A Tuesday that she went through believing was a Monday.Everything’s fine—right?Right.// or;the one with an inexplicable murder spree, town wide insomnia, battles with our worst selves and a healthy slathering of love dramatically realized.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> post regina splitting herself, and then some hard canon-divergence. // this has been sitting here for the lols for a good while now, figured i should post it and get it out in the world. obviously, i don't typically write ouat/swan queen, but who doesn't fracking love regina mills? i know i do. i love comments; i also love chatting on tumblr, so feel free to message me ~

It starts on a Tuesday.

A Tuesday that she went through believing was a Monday.

Now, it isn’t impossible for the days to get away from her—no, not impossible, but _unlikely_. Almost no one notices the fumble half-way through a meeting, but that could be drawn down to the fact that the meeting consists of imbeciles and ingrates—and Emma Swan. Who is sometimes one, sometimes the other—but usually neither, despite what Regina likes to say with an exasperated eye roll.

“Since the weekly meeting is in two days,” she begins, already dismissing them in her mind—letting Jacob from human resources, and Charles from accounting drift away, “We’ll look over the budget then.”

“Tomorrow,” Emma pipes up, though Regina can tell _she_ isn’t really listening.

“Excuse me?”

“The weekly meeting is tomorrow,” _now_ green eyes have lifted, crinkling slightly with the half-grin given to accompany them, and Regina feels— _something_ —as idiotic as the vagueness is, it doesn’t seem to matter because there’s no way in hell it’ll trip past her lips.

“It’s on Wednesday,” the brunette doesn’t _hedge_ , but her brows have drawn down.

“And today is Tuesday.”

She doesn’t like how _concerned_ Emma looks now, nothing serious or too noticeable, but it’s in the way her chin tips and her hands spread out on the table. Jacob and Charles have already left—having taken their dismissal to heart—and everyone else has filed out behind them, not really too concerned with discrepancies of what day of the week it is.

“Of course,” she says, smiling slightly, because _of course_ it’s Tuesday; after all, she picked Henry up for school yesterday, and make paella for dinner—hadn’t she? Any attempt at recalling the events of the prior day leave her with a fluttering haze of static, like they’d simply vanished.  “Of course it’s Tuesday; my mistake.”

The admission of being wrong doesn’t startle Emma like it might’ve a year or two ago, because Regina isn’t afraid to be wrong, not around family. Not around Emma.

“Everything alright?” Emma’s stepping around the table, fingers pressing against the wood, other hovering almost awkwardly like she wants to reach out, but is stopping herself.

She always stops herself now, like touching is some taboo that had wormed its way into their lives.

“Everything’s fine,” said with a smile that’s all white teeth and red lips, but Emma nods, and returns it with a smile that’s a little more genuine. They stay there, existing in the same room for a little while longer, before they part—Emma drifting away, and Regina pulling inward.

Everything’s fine—right?

Right.

.

.

 _Crash_. The windows shatter inward, the shards of glass suspended in the air, twisting and spinning until they fall like dangerous raindrops to the ground. _Clink, clink_.

The old woman who lives not in a shoe—not in this land without magic—but a small one room cottage startles from where she had fallen asleep in her armchair.

The old leather creaks.

The wind outside howls and screams and tears at the curtains to her suddenly glassless window.

“Oh dear,” a voice drawls, curling like a grin at the edge of every silken word.

If a tree falls in the wood and no one’s around to hear it—does it make a sound?

Of course it does.

If an old woman who lives not in a shoe, but a cottage, is torn to pieces—does she make a sound?

Oh, absolutely.

.

.

The sun’s particularly insistent when her alarm blares—bright, and cheerful, and all manner of annoying.

Regina’s usually already awake by the time her alarm sounds at five thirty—one part insomnia and two parts an internal clock. Occasionally, there’s the irrational worry at the edges of her mind that she isn’t quite sure where she is—sometimes when she leaves the window open in winter it feels like the bitter drafts of an empty stone castle.

Sometimes in the summer the freshly cut grass smells like the field just outside a stable.

Exhaling long enough that she can physically feel the pressure on her lungs she throws back the covers and makes her way to the en suite. The water takes too long to warm, the mirror fogs too quickly, and there’s a haziness that lives just inside her skill—a warbling discomfort that pulses and threads through her nerve endings.

Henry’s at Emma’s but there’s an almost ingrained need to scramble eggs in a pan that she’ll never actually eat herself. It’s the _tick whirr_ of the pilot flame, the close hum of the refrigerator.

Her mobile buzzes and she clicks on the screen to see a text from Henry— _up on time, ma made omelets. Love u xo xo_

It makes her smile, makes her forget the weariness she’d been feeling since she woke up—and almost made her miss the muddy footprints in the foyer.

They’re small, and already dry, and Regina tries to remember when she’d made them—it _had_ been raining yesterday, but she swore she’d cleaned up the floor when she’d gotten home.

Nearly late already, she steps over the two prints and out the door.

.

.

Emma’s acting strange.

She’d brought Regina the usual fare for lunch—a salad and a ginger ale—and had sat in silence for the longest time. Usually the mayor had to actively encourage Emma to breathe between thoughts—as she skittered from topic to topic.

It was an unusual kind of fondness that had crept up on Regina at first—how easily annoyance melded and molded into something like tolerance, and then affection.

Regina watches how green eyes flick to her, and then down to the chicken sandwich that she knew granny had probably fostered upon the sheriff. The battle axe had fallen head first into health foods the last week or so—even Regina was hesitant to try some of her healthier dishes.

Regina opened her mouth to ask what was wrong—

“There was a murder last night.”

Oh.

“Oh,” brilliant, succinct—Emma looks up at Regina’s lackluster response. The mayor delicately clears her throat. “Who?”

“Old woman who lives in a shoe, if you’ll believe it,” pause—one moment, two moments, “Of course you believe it—why wouldn’t you?” Rushing out words before filling her mouth with more chicken sandwich than necessary.

“Caroline Cudharlow,” Regina says, tapping her fork once before putting it down. “Cause of death?”

“You know how these investigations are,” Emma tries for casual, but ends up with that nervous rush of explanation that just invites more questions. “Don’t want to rule anything out too soon, you know?”

One moment, two moments.

“Emma.”

Green eyes blink, brow tucking, before she relents. Fingernail scratching absent patterns into the Styrofoam of her take away container. “Her heart’s missing.”

Regina feels the itch at the back of her throat that just invites agitation—a shiver up the spine, an uneasy pressure in her chest. She doesn’t like feeling like she had once—like every conversation was an accusation in disguise, but Emma _has_ been acting cagey, and this is the only explanation Regina can think of. “Do you think that I—.”

Emma interrupts quickly, “No, no—God, of course not, Regina.”

Running hands through blonde hair, Emma looks more tired than Regina realized—it wasn’t bags under the eyes, or anything adamantly physical, but it was just the _air_ about her.

“Missing like—actually missing.” Emma tries again, but scowls and picks at her French fries. “Someone Temple of Doomed her.”

Frown, the mayor exhales loudly, “Is that a sex thing?”

“A sex thin—no,” shaking her head, and popping a fry in her mouth. Emma chews thoughtfully, making sure to point out how well she’s waiting to talk—until her mouth isn’t full. “Someone literally took her heart—like, the old fashioned way. With a bone saw, or whatever.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Regina murmurs while imagining it—she doesn’t have to pretend very hard to get the visual. Bloody fingers plucking and digging, tearing at floater ribs and through muscle. The _hah-hew_ of a saw chewing through bone, little flash of marrow coughed up into the air. Itching at her palms, she can’t help the phantom feeling of blood under her nails.

“Any leads?”

Emma chews her lip, going so far as to lean back in her chair—despite Regina’s constant warning _not_ to do it—and clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Not really, she lived all the way out in the woods, no one was close enough to even _hear_ something. Let alone see it.” Whatever reticence Emma had had is gone, and Regina feels whole hearts better for it. Just the way the sheriff grins faintly when she catching Regina watching her absently.

A look that the mayor might’ve once tried to hide—tried to deny—but now it’s just…it’s _them_. The lingering touches, and the absent stares. Folded into the closeness of two people who’ve moved moons and stopped the unstoppable. Sometimes—after a movie and too much wine—Regina wants to say what they never say, bring up the silent truths that stretch and spread between them.

Bring up how each one of their chances at love crumbles and flitted away on a southern breeze—soulmates and supposed true loves. All gone—leaving…just them. Lingering and absent.

“Well,” Regina says, brushing imaginary crumbs from her palms and standing. “Let us away then. I’ll try a magic trace, see what big nasty we’re dealing with now.”

Emma groans. “ _Let us away_? Have you been reading Shakespeare again? We’re taking separate cars if you’ve been reading Shakespeare.”

Regina laughs, throaty and belly deep, because only Emma Swan could make someone’s reading habits the worst thing happening in the middle of a murder investigation.

“Midsummer Night’s Dream,” the mayor concedes, to yet another theatric groan.

.

.

Silence and bitter air. The vents chitter and click as the last little piggy locks up for the night—window shades drawn, door locked tight. No straw, no mud—just brick and mortar.

The windows rumble and the shades shiver, a storm brewing though not a single drop has fallen yet. _Crack_ , the thunder gurgles form the farthest horizon, but the pig-turned-man doesn’t balk. His restaurant has survived curses, and battles, and mid-day rush.

A little Maine storm is nothing.

Another rumble from above, and then a crash from the kitchen—he can’t see into the dark beyond the door. Just hear the _click, whirr_ of something being turned on.

“Little pig,” a voice sings form the still dark of his restaurant. “Little pig, let me come in.”

Hands scrabble for the lock he had just set, fingers numbing and useless and he twists and pulls. Glancing back, he sees a flicker—a spark—in the black of the kitchen.

“Or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff.” Another spark, a scratch and drag of nails down something—he squeals and shoves his shoulder into the door that _won’t_ open.

A hot breath against his ear, a voice low and smooth, “and I’ll blow your house down.”

 _Click_ —the opened gas main catches the spark and the kitchen is engulfed in flames.

.

.

Five bodies in as many days.

Two buildings charred from the fire three nights past.

No leads.

.

.

“There has to be something.” Charming’s chomping at the bit, realizing that he really isn’t the epitome of small town law enforcement when there’s no one to actively swing a sword at.

“There is,” Emma says with all the aplomb of someone tired of being tired, “five dead guys and fuck all else.”

No traces of magic, no familiar taste in her mouth—Regina hadn’t been able to pin-point _anything_. Either this person didn’t have a lick of magic in them, or they were _very_ good at hiding their tracks.

Sitting in Emma’s chair, arms cross and half-bundled in a coat that she didn’t bother taking off, Regina watches father and daughter both stalk back and forth. She could see the similarities easiest in times like this—the agitated hands, the expressive eyes, the bone deep need to _protect_.

“There’s a pattern, something we’re not seeing.” Emma smacks a hand down on the map of Storybrooke, lithe finger tracing from tack to tack.

Regina looks at the map, following Emma’s finger from the middle of the woods, to the edge of town, to the restaurant down the street, to the apartment building across town, and finally to the suburbs not too far from Mifflin.

Five dead—five unrelated.

.

.

“Regina,” Emma’s saying, hands bracketed on Regina’s upper arms—green, green eyes concerned, and bright, and beautiful. She can’t remember how Emma got so close without her realizing. “You fell asleep on us. Maybe we should all take a break.” She looks so _concerned_ , something deep down inside the mayor bristles the same time everything else softens and smooths out.

“I’m fine,” Regina tries, rubbing some feeling into her thighs and sitting up a little—which just leaves her closer to Emma and her mint scented shampoo. Lungful after lungful has her punch drunk and swaying. “Every night, Emma. Every night.”

“I know.”

There’s a plummet in her chest, a _thump_ _whoosh_ as the reality of everything falls horribly into place—unexplained murders, no leads. The town was started to crack at the edges—stores closed before dark, no one left their houses after of the deputies—one of those damned dwarves—had joked about a curfew. Regina was watching her town crumble and there wasn’t a single grand gesture to be had.

“We’ll figure something out,” Emma breathes, still close enough to share air, close enough that Regina can see the barest fleck of brown-gold in her eyes. “We always do.”

.

.

Regina wakes up feeling like she never actually went to sleep.

Tossing her legs out of bed so that her toes might curl into the plushness of her carpet—Emma had agreed to a late night patrol, cruising through the silent dark of the town looking for _anything_ that might be amiss. Hours passed, and eventually the sheriff had pulled along the curb to Mifflin and slouched in defeat.

Regina had gotten out reluctantly with promises to start fresh in the morning—just enough hours left in the night to be refreshed, though how she was currently feeling went harshly against that.

Her eyes burned like they were dry and no amount of artificial tears could help. Stretching and walking up to the vanity mirror against the wall, Regina really saw herself for the first time in days—since this all started.

Dark shadows beneath red cracked eyes, pale and wan—edging closer toward waxy than she’d ever admit to. She started to understand why Emma and David kept glancing at her out of the corner of their eyes. She looked a horror.

Rubbing hands roughly over her face, she turns to walk into the bathroom—a hot shower and some concealer should do the trick.

 _Crack_. Stepping on a rounded piece of glass that miraculously doesn’t dig into the bare sole of her foot. There was shards of green bottled glass and tangle of fish netting—all wet and smelling of brine.

Regina blink, taking a step back—the scent of the sea filling her nostrils as she looks for some _reason_ it’s all in her bathroom when she sees it. Three words written bright red against the mirror—the blood thick and wet like it had _just_ been done. Regina can see her face in the reflection—wide dark eyes, paler than pale skin, and—and _blood_. Smeared all down her eyelids and cheeks, like she’d rubbed—

Looking down at her hands, they’re _crimson_. From nail-bed to wrist.

Looking at her bed, the white sheets a tangled mess of red.

Blood soaked.

.

.

_I’m still here._


	2. Chapter 2

Everything warbles and drones—the _drip, drip_ of the bathroom sounding far away and false. Like rain upon a tin roof. Bloody hand prints grace everywhere she touches the white tiles. Long drags of red as sound dips away and color bleeds to gray.

Red and white, red and white—the smell of brine.

Regina stumbles, a bloody hand pressing against the counter—smears of blood arching in three long steaks from her scrambling fingertips. Everything fades, blackening at the edges, curling and sliding away.

A sickness roiling in her stomach, a pain behind her eyes and pumping like blood in her ears.

Red and white, red and white—the taste of copper.

Pushing back and away, shoulders hit the bathroom wall while she tried to shake the dizziness away, tried to clear her thoughts. But it was like they no longer belonged to her, no longer answered to her.

Kicking through shards of glass—cutting her toes and slicing through the soles of her feet—she tries to make it to her mobile. Tries to call Emma.

Trembling red fingers swipe at the screen, squinting against the bright backlighting as Regina scrolled through her contacts—too addled to simply press the favorites. Or simply call the last number dials. E. Swan, _click_.

_Ring, ring_.

Red and white, red and white—the sound of a tinny voice.

.

.

No sun, no rude awakening—just the pitter-patter of rain against her bedroom window.

Sheets tangled around each and every one of her limbs—constricting and warm—Regina doesn’t even remember she’s supposed to be getting up for almost twenty minutes. Existing in that place between waking and unconsciousness. Where dreams are still dreams, but reality is miles upon miles away.

It isn’t until Regina reaches up to rub at the pillow creases on her cheek that she remembers—bloody hands and shattered glass. Snapping awake in only a moment, eyes nearly black in a gray searching through the linens tangled around her body. Crisp white sheets with not a single blemish—wrinkled and folded and creased—but not a single droplet of blood.

Turning, Regina spots her mobile lost in the fabric, she desperately searches for the call she’d made last night. One call, made to _E. Swan_ at four sixteen in the morning. It was three minutes long—but she couldn’t _remember_ it. Couldn’t piece the conversation together.

Though that could probably be done by the text messages waiting to be read.

[ **4:20 AM** ] **E. Swan** : _I’m not letting you live this down, mdm mayor._

[ **4:20 AM** ] **E. Swan** : _a booty call? In front of **my** salad._

[ **4:21 AM** ] **E. Swan** : _okay, so you called to sass—that’s basically a booty call._

[ **4:26 AM** ] **E. Swan** : _sweet dreams, regina_.

Regina stares blankly at the text bubbles, trying to blink away the haze that’s descending on everything—her muscles, her mind, her very _bones_ heavy with it.

When she gets up to go into the bathroom there’s no blood, no scent of sea salt—no shattered glass.

No words written on the mirror.

Bracing herself against the sink, Regina can only stare into eyes gone all black with pupil—something buzzing in her teeth, something digging into her bones. Anxiety, fear, the adrenaline of waking so suddenly.

“Just a dream,” _a nightmare_ , something chitters, but she breathes a sigh of relief, of _something_ , because it had felt so _real_. So absolutely, horribly real.

No blood, no brine—no words upon the mirror.

Everything’s fine—right?

Right.

.

.

Henry laughs—bright, cheerful, a balm to everything dark and hard in Regina’s heart.

Sunday brunch was becoming a tradition Regina didn’t hate—all the curtains thrown open, the not-quite bright sunlight filtering through, the bustle of bodies swaying and hip-checking through the kitchen. Laughter, voices, the clank of pans; from where she sits at the dining-room table—forcibly removed from her own kitchen—she can’t help smiling at the _life_ of it all.

“Makes it all worth it, right?” Emma says at her side, leaning against the table. “Everything we’ve been through—everything that’s happened.” She’s watching her parents dance horribly across the kitchen, Charming singing along poorly with the music, Snow laughing and trying to hide it in her husband’s shoulder.

The look on Emma’s face is one of someone used to looking in from the outside—someone who grew up watching families, grew up seeing them abstractly—never having one of her own. It’s a look that hurts Regina’s heart, plucks at that guilt that lingers and bleeds when she isn’t careful. When she lets herself think about it too much—about decisions, and consequences, and forever-afters.

Regina doesn’t realize she’s reaching out until fingers are wrapping around Emma’s wrist—until green, green eyes are looking down at her with that same wistfully dazed expression. Want, and need, and some kind of happiness lancing through her edges. Warm smooth skin and the faintest pulse beneath her fingertips.

“It does,” quiet and faint, and just loud enough for Emma to hear. Regina would always have that twinge in her chest, that pang of guilt—but she couldn’t regret it—not with her family laughing only a room away.

Emma grins, tugging Regina up from her seat so that they could back into the kitchen, the music shoving out everything else, the smell of bacon, and eggs, and burned pancakes thick in the air. “If you can’t beat them,” Emma says while releasing Regina’s hand and turning to start smacking the countertop in something close to the rhythm of the song—singing horribly off-key on purpose.

“Come’n mom!” Henry’s sliding around the island counter in his sock, tussled hair a little too long, dark eyes bright and he’s too young to look anything other than he does now. Happy, and safe, with no worry living in his eyes.

“Henry—,” she begins, but he’s already pulling her into something that could be mistaken for dancing—all kicking feet and swinging arms, and Regina loves him _so much_. How could she want for anything when she has him?

.

.

Body number six is found at the harbor.

Tangled up in his fishing nets.

.

.

They’re never people who will be missed—as horrible as it is to think—they’re people with no families, no close friends; who slip away sometime in the night and no one is the wiser.

.

.

“I thought we got rid of our pirate problem?” Regina asks, standing beside said pirate—a middle-aged man with about sixty extra pounds and hair that might’ve been dark some years before his death. She tries to remember him—tries to dig down and untether something that would make him familiar, but there’s nothing. He’s an unknown—graying, and old, and foreign.

It’s a relief.

“Some didn’t want to go with Hook,” Emma sniffs, twirling a scalpel in a way that borders on stupid. “Go figure, apparently he’s a shit captain too.”

Regina hadn’t minded the good captain sailing off into the sunset—at had actually been the middle of the night, but technicalities—she’d actually been all manner of relieved. That tittering darkness that seemed to always linger just outside her moral compass was _thrilled_ —though she hadn’t liked how sad Emma’d been in the weeks to follow. Looking dimmer by the day—until she’d showed up at the mansion after a furious jog and seemed to reclaim herself.

Mind, body, and soul.

“Shame,” drumming fingers on her upper arms, Regina leans over the scent of brine filling her nostrils. She can only think of her nightmare—of red blood on white times, on green glass and tangles nets. There’s a sour taste building on the back of her tongue, and just as she’s about to open her mouth—Whale walks in with a needlessly dramatic door opening.

“Well, looks like our swashbuckler here died from drowning.” Flipping some papers, running a finger across some by-line toward the bottom. “Some ligature marks suggests he had some help—something thin and tight wrapped around his neck.” Whale blinks up, grinning that smarmy smile until Regina’s glare cuts through him.

“Like fishing net?”

“I’m really not comfortable saying anything for certain, at this point.” Regina’s fingers curl, something like smoke and sulfur filling her chest while both her arms drop to hang loosely at her sides.

“But it’s possible?” Emma hedges, sidling up to Regina’s shoulder, her warmth and presence enough to keep the mayor for doing anything _drastic_.

“It’s not impossible.”

“Well, this has been enlightening,” sharp, like the migraine building behind her eyes—eyes that feel dryer by the moment—like weights are beginning to press down on her lids. Another coffee, she just needs another coffee. “We’ll be on our way.”

.

.

“No trace of magic,” Emma’s throwing a ball up in the air—up, down, up down—catching the tennis ball deftly as she lists off facts. Feet kicked up on David’s desk with no consideration for the dirt caked into the sole of her boots. “No connections. No misplaced portals. No villain of the week.” Up, down, up down. Regina watches from the sheriff’s desk, straightening papers that meant nothing, into piles that had no purpose.

“And that concludes what you missed last week on Once Upon a Time in Storybrooke,” Regina rasps sarcastically, eyebrow arched.

“Not gonna lie, I saw a llama when I went out to the cottage, a genuine fucking llama—” Regina can’t help cutting in, maybe it’s the _can you believe_ _it_ aim Emma was going for.

“Opposed to a false llama? Because we’ve got a plethora of those.”

“Shut up,” Regina wasn’t even annoyed by the absent rebuttal as Emma continued, “As I was saying; this llama, walked right up to me, had this stupid fucking hat and matching sweater. I started asking it about Kuzco’s poison.”

“Who’s Kuzco? And why would a llama have his poison?” Regina asks, hiding a smile as Emma grins wide and leans a little too far back in her chair—two legs off the ground, the joints creaking.

“The poison for Kuzco, the poison chosen especially to kill Kuzco.”

“The llama’s killing Kuzco?”

Emma frowns, but not like she means it, “No, Kuzco is the llama.”

“How did you know the llama’s name?”

“I—not the llama I ran into, the—you know what? Never mind.” Emma throws her hands up, head hanging back over the chair in defeat, tennis ball bouncing sedately into one of the cells. “Turns out Ol’ McDonald just likes putting sweaters on his livestock.” So disheartened. Moping with those big eyes that just tug and twist at all that soft tender parts of the mayor.

Calling the tennis ball to her hand, her magic sparks purple—brisk and sharp, hesitating—before it obeys and the fuzzy yellow-green ball rests in her palm. Turning it over and over, “I’ve seen Emperor’s New Groove.” Lobbing the tennis ball at Emma, she smiles wider when the blonde turns around with a rather dramatic rotation of the chair and catches it.

“You’re evil,” Emma says, glowering.

“So I’ve been told.”

.

.

School’s let out—half day, teacher’s holiday.

Bright, sunny—the sounds of children at the playground just beyond the tree line. The world they live in is one that doesn’t have room for gristly murders, for late night horrors. There is no monster under the bed, no need for nightlights. A cacophony of giggles raises and a crimson ball rolls across the crisp grass and rests against a narrow black boot.

“Can I have my ball?” A little girl—six, maybe seven—with wide brown eyes and a mess of curls. The air _tastes_ like belief, a spark under the tongue—invigorating.

“Oh, of course,” sliding words left to curl and fade. Kicking the ball up and handing it over, the little girl grins wide—missing a front tooth as she turns and sprints back through the bushes.

A cloud passes overhead.

“It’s a real shame,” a whisper of a sigh.

A narrow boot steps over the body spread prone in the grass just inside the forest—ribs cracked wide, shards of white chewing through muscle and skin. Crimson spilling across the gravel, through the grass—mixing, and mixing, and mixing. The man—or what used to be a man—is face up in the weeds, eyes gone milky and pale as he forever stares up in admiration. Wonder and joy splitting his face, stitching into his manic smile.

“Shame, shame, shame.” A light little sing song as the cloud over head drifts off—sunlight spilling through the leaves, dripping like raindrops to the ground.

.

.

“I don’t know why you read that garbage,” Emma drawls, handing over a dark cup of coffee—Regina looks up from the page she’d been reading, over, and over, and over. Exhaustion lines her bones, digs into her muscles and spills like poison through her blood. _Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding truth_ —Regina’d been trying to read herself to sleep for the better part of the last hour, but no good.

Wrapping fingers around the warm cup, she took a sip and let the bitter black scald the roof of her mouth, ignoring the hissed _watch it, it’s hot_.

“It relaxes me.”

“Oh yeah, because it’s _so_ relaxing to not understand anything on the page.” All in fun, all for a laugh, but there’s a seriousness that wasn’t there before. “Regina,” hushed, chair legs scrapping as Emma plops down beside Regina. “Is everything okay? You don’t—it doesn’t look like you’ve been sleeping.”

Regina blows the steam from her cup, watching it swivel and swirl through the air—heavy lids, dry eyes. “Everything’s fine,” turning to look at Emma, at eyes trusting but concerned. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.” _Nightmares_ , the unspoken truth.

“We’ll get this guy,” a warm hand over hers, a comforting weight opposed to every other force lingering in Regina’s bones. A thumb rubbing once—twice—over knuckles and then just…resting there. Not pulling away, not shying from the touch. “I mean, we’ve beaten everything else. The good guys always win, right?”

That’s how the story is supposed to go, that’s how the book’s written—so much bad happens, just so that good had something to triumph over. Something to beat. But Regina knows better— _Emma_ knows better—the world happens, and so much bad goes unchecked because sometimes people just don’t _care_. Sometimes the story isn’t big enough, or important enough, or sometimes—the bad today happens so that the good tomorrow exists.

“ _Ever shall in safety rest_ ,” Regina says while Emma groans, thumping her head down on the back of their hands—which had interlaced at some point. Fingers tucked around each other.

“We were having a moment, a real moment,” hot breath puffing against her palm, “and you ruined it with Shakespeare.”

.

.

_Hand in hand, with fairy grace,_

_will we sing, and bless this place._

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to message me on tumblr @ **civilorange**.


End file.
